See Charlie Run

least of Japanese or Russian involvement mucking everything up. Better to get one rather than neither and to try the dirty stuff later. By herself, Irena would be a good enough catch. And … Charlie sat back positively in his chair, stopping the run of thought. He was ahead of himself; too far ahead. London might be happy enough with the identification and it certainly gave him the sort of advantage he always liked to have, but there was a long way to go before the uncertainties were resolved in Charlie’s mind.

He sent the formal acknowledgement of receipt, read Wilson’s transcribed cable a second time, to memorize it, and then shredded and burned it.

Cartright was in the outer office, apparently working on some documents, when Charlie emerged. Charlie said: ‘There is quite a lot of stuff coming for me in the diplomatic bag.’

‘I’ll warn Dispatch,’ said the Resident.

‘It’s important,’ stressed Charlie.

‘Do you want it at the hotel?’

Charlie was about to say yes and then stopped, recognizing the pitfall; definitely a trick question. ‘Probably safer here,’ he said instead.

Cartright was hot with discomfort. He said: ‘I’ll be glad when this is all over.’

‘So will I,’ said Charlie. ‘I usually am.’ Until three or four days after the return to London, boring desk work and poisonous meat pies, he thought.

Charlie remained observant on his return to the hotel, although accepting – objectively again – that so varied and so many nationalities gathered up in a complex this large made any proper sort of incoming surveillance check impossible. He gave up after half a dozen possibilities, because it didn’t matter. He’d make a definite check tomorrow: Charlie knew he had to get Fredericks and his merry men off his back before things got serious. Definitely before he got into any sort of negotiation with Irena: if he got into negotiation with Irena. Still a long way to go: miles, in fact. Keeping things in their order of importance when he reached his room, he first removed his spread-apart Hush Puppies, flexing his toes and feet against the day’s incarceration, and he was looking towards the efficiently re-stocked refrigerator and bar when the telephone rang.

‘Wondered what you were doing?’ said a voice he recognized as that of Fredericks.

Not necessary to check surveillance tomorrow, Charlie accepted, knowing they’d covered his return to the hotel: Fredericks was an asshole. He said: ‘Exercising my feet.’

‘What!’

‘Nothing important,’ said Charlie.

‘Thought maybe we might eat?’ invited Fredericks.

‘With friends?’ asked Charlie, immediately attentive.

‘Not quite,’ said the American.

So there was something at least, Charlie thought. He said: ‘I’d like that.’

‘You enjoy Japanese food?’

‘Very much.’ Harry Lu had been the teacher, Charlie remembered. Challenging at first, so they went beyond the raw fish of sashimi and because it was winter progressed to the fugu, Harry trying to put him off with stories of how many people died from eating the poisonous bits of the blowfish. He’d have to introduce Harry to meat pies.

‘The Japanese eat early, you know? I thought we might.’

Another hint, decided Charlie. He said: ‘Eating early suits me fine.’

‘I know a good shabu-shabu place near your hotel. That all right with you?’

‘Shall I meet you there?’

‘I’ll pick you up,’ said Fredericks. ‘How about five minutes?’

‘I’ll be waiting,’ said Charlie. Fredericks had obviously been doing the same, maybe in the hotel itself; there was definitely some movement. Charlie felt a stir of anticipation. Reluctantly he encased his feet again, leaving the shoes unlaced until the last moment, looking towards the inviting refrigerator. Not time, he decided.

The American’s summons from the lobby came precisely on time and the man was waiting when Charlie emerged from the elevators, smiling a greeting. Charlie nodded back, aware of the changed attitude.

‘We’ll take a cab,’ announced Fredericks, leading off towards the second set of lifts.

‘Sure,’ said Charlie. Was that important?

Fredericks gave the address in Japanese and the taxi took a route away from the Ginza and Charlie was glad they weren’t going somewhere overly touristy. He glanced through the back window, wondering how much protection Fredericks had around himself. By now, reflected Charlie, his own military squad would already be airborne.

In the tightly enclosed but still open cab, Fredericks played the guide and Charlie adopted the required role, nodding appreciatively at the identified landmarks, noting in passing that from the American’s description Niban-Cho was the fun place he remembered from earlier trips and deciding, sadly, that it would have to remain one of fond memories.

The restaurant was formal. Charlie removed his shoes at the entrance and placed them traditionally correct, with the heels against the step, toes turned outwards.

Fredericks watched and said: ‘You didn’t tell me you knew Japan.’

‘There’s a lot we haven’t talked about,’ said Charlie, pointedly. He looked down at the discarded footwear and said: ‘Just imagine if they were stolen.’

The American looked down in disbelief. ‘I shouldn’t worry.’

‘It’s taken a long time to get them like that,’ said Charlie.

‘I believe you,’ said Fredericks.

They were shown to a discreet, two-only table with a recessed dip beneath, so they did not have to sit crossed-legged, Japanese fashion. A smiling, bowing waitress placed the copper-protected charcoal cone on the table between them and then poured in the moat of water, to heat. Another smiling waitress brought the see- through Kobe beef and the sauces.

Indicating, Fredericks said: ‘This is ponzu …’

‘Which is vinegar-based,’ took up Charlie. ‘I prefer the sesame taste of gomadare.’

‘I didn’t mean to patronize,’ apologized the American.

Charlie deftly used the chopsticks to hold a strip of beef in the water to boil, dipped it into the sauce and said, as he ate: ‘Good restaurant. I like it.’ Patronize as much as you like; that’s what you’re supposed to do, thought Charlie. When people were mocking and convincing themselves what a mess he was and imagining how superior they were, the mistakes – their mistakes, to his benefit – were usually being made left, right, centre and backwards. And the silly buggers never realized it. He said: ‘There’s been some response?’

Instead of replying directly, Fredericks said: ‘What about the stuff I let you have?’

‘Sent it all to London,’ said Charlie, appearing intent upon his meal. It would be wrong for him to stop being careful.

‘And?’ prompted Fredericks.

The American wasn’t eating much, Charlie saw. He said: ‘Nothing, not yet. You couldn’t expect anything this quickly, surely?’

‘Kozlov talked of London: I hoped you guys might have had some record to which we didn’t have access.’

Sure you did, thought Charlie. ‘I’d hoped the same thing,’ he lied, easily. ‘So far, no luck.’

The vegetables arrived. After the dish was deposited on the table Charlie said, gesturing with his chopsticks: ‘Hakusia, shiitake, negi, yakidofu and shungiku.’

‘You’ve made your point and I said I was sorry, OK!’

I made it but you missed it, thought Charlie. The nonsense of picking out the food was to irritate the man, deflecting his concentration. These were the times Charlie enjoyed, producing words like conjurors pulled coloured scarves out of hats, so quickly it was hard to see the trick.

‘What about Germany?’ tried Fredericks, in persistence of his own.

Charlie dipped some cabbage into the water, deciding from the quality of the meat and vegetables that the soup it was making for the end would be excellent: Harry would have approved. He said: ‘Make some allowance, Art, for Christ’s sake! If we can’t turn up anything from our own records, what chance have we had so far to get